Since Britain Left
by Lady Death of Nevada
Summary: FrUK. France has been a mess ever since Britain left. And all Monaco can do is sit by and watch as her brother crumbles to bits. Told from the POV of Monaco, France's sister (search her, she's a real character). Please don't just skip this story because it deals with Britain leaving, because I promise it has a happy ending. Some things are based on real life events.


Silence. Silence fills the house that was once filled with energy and joy. There was always excitement going on here. And now there's just silence. Ever since he left, France has dropped into a rut, and nothing seems to be able to help him. And I hate it.

So now, I'm staring at the canopy of my bed, trying to think, though my head is fogged up with thoughts and worries of my older brother. I love him so much and it hurts me beyond belief to see him like this. But there's nothing I can do. There's nothing that he'll let me do. I'd probably cry, if I had any more tears to shed. But they're all gone. I've used them all up, and now all I can do is sit here and worry for hours, days, weeks, and now what seems like months on end.

My hair is in a frizzy mess; I didn't even bother to braid it or tie my usual ribbon into it. My glasses are lying next to me on my sheets, making the ceiling that my eyes are fixated on seem fuzzy. Gilbert is supposed to be coming by to give me my class work and to check on us. I couldn't go to school today. I woke up late, missed the bus, and no longer had the will to find another way to get there when I walked into Francis' room to ask him for a ride, just to see his blank, pale face, staring into the distance. His usually exuberant, sparkling cyan eyes now just a dull blue, and his always kept hair nothing but a rat's nest. He's beginning to refuse to eat. He hasn't been outside for weeks. He hasn't muttered a word in a month. And I haven't seen him move since the thing with the police months ago, when he finally cracked.

I hear a sudden knock at my door.

"Hello?" Gilbert pops his head in, pushing my door open in the slightest. I glance over at him.

"Salut," I reply, too tired to speak English. He walks in and drops a stack of papers on my desk before coming over and sitting on the edge of my bed. He gives me a worried look; I'm still in my pajamas. He just stares at me for some time, while I in turn continue to stare at the canopy of my bed. Eventually, Prussia decides to break the silence.

"Not all of the papers are for Gakuen; some are from Albert," I glanced back at him.

"He still expects me to complete paperwork?" I asked. Prussia gave me a look. You know that look. The look people give you when you've just said something incredibly stupid and they're just so disappointed in you. Yeah, that one.

"Monaco, this whole skipping out on your work thing is hurting your economy, and with France in his current state he can't help you, so of course your Prince has papers for you to fill out," At the mention of my brother's name, I averted my eyes away from Gilbert and towards one of the curtain covered sides of my four poster bed. He sighed, seeming as tired as me. He really is strong; I know he's feeling the same pain I am, but he still manages to not show it. Though, granted, he no longer has a country to run, "Speaking of which, how is he?" He added after a little while.

"Same as he's been for months," I reply, and I guess I was wrong before, because I can feel tears beginning to pool in my eyes. I blink them back, which doesn't help at all. Prussia's frown grows as he sees my eyes glisten.

"Mona, I know this is hard for you, but everything will go back to normal. I promise." For the first time, I actually turn my head to face him. I kick myself up so I'm sitting up on my messy bed, and I give Prussia a look filled with the hurt and rage that I've been keeping locked in ever since Francis found out about the thing.

"How the hell could you say that?" I cut at him, "You don't know that! You don't know that it's going to get better! How could you tell me something like that when I know it isn't true, and that it never will be! Francis will never be the same and neither will anything else!" I stop suddenly with a look of shock on my face as the first tear escapes. This is the first time I've ever actually voiced my dreads. My gaze falls to my feet, and then jumps back to meet with Gilbert's equally surprised eyes. Quickly, they change to a look of pure sympathy. I attack him, squeezing him into a tight embrace, and letting my sobs escape. I wrap my hands in his white shirt and his soft hair, clutching to him for dear life, as if everything depends upon my holding onto him. I feel a few lone droplets on my back and know that Prussia is too crying for his friend.

"Gilbert," A choked cry leaves my mouth, "What will we do? What if he stays like this. Oh Gilbert, I'm just so worried about him!" I sob, digging my head into the crook of his neck. He squeezes me tighter, and I hear him sniffle.

"We'll help him. He may be a drama queen, but he can't stay like this forever. His economy was already bad from this damn recession we're all in, and gottknows how many times Hollande has tried to get him out of this rut, screaming at him as if it'll help him any. But don't worry. He will get better with help from the awesome me and the rest of his friends. I know it may seem impossible, but he will,"

I sigh, so sick of all the tears and the wishing that everything could just go back to how it used to be, and run my hands through my hair, pulling it back and over one shoulder; it's a habit I have. I stand up, grabbing my glasses and pressing them onto my face. I walk over to my growing stack of papers, before turning to Prussia, "I think you should go now. I have lots to get done, and I want to try and get Francis to eat," I hear him stand up from his seated position on my bed and walk over to me, squeezing me affectionately one more time and kissing me on the top of my head. I've known him forever; he's almost like another brother to me.

"Okay," He replies.

"Here, I'll show you out," I say before leading him down the stairs. Once we get to the front door, I hug him again, kissing him on both cheeks as France has taught me to do.

"Auf wiedersehen," He speaks as he ruffles my hair, opening the door and walking through it.

"Au revoir," I reply, waving and closing the door before locking it tightly. I stand there for a few moments, taking in a deep breath as I put my face in my hands and rub my eyes. I really am exhausted. But I make my way to the kitchen, grabbing a croissant, warming it up, and putting it on a platter along with a glass of wine. I walk outside, breathing in the fresh air as I shade my eyes from the bright sun, and walk over to Francis' once beautiful garden. He'd abandoned it, as he had all else, and I had tried to keep it alive but I knew and still know next to nothing about gardening. All that were left were some daffodils, irises, and lilies. I took the most beautiful lily and the prettiest iris I could find and cut them from their places in the ground, smelling their wonderful fragrances.

I placed them in a glass with some water, added the vase to the platter, and slapping some ice cold water onto my face to keep me awake, picked up the platter and began my walk to Francis' room. I pushed the door open with my back; it was never closed all the way anymore, and walked into the dark room. Francis' four-poster's curtains were pulled shut, as were the matching curtains on the windows. With a worried frown, I set down the platter on his nightstand before swallowing my fears and pulling aside the curtain to his bed. And there he was, looking gaunter then ever. He skin was grayer than it had been during any war I'd ever seen him in from lack of Vitamin C, and he looked worse than he had during his occupation in WWII. I swallowed a sob, looking sadly upon him. He was staring up at the ceiling as I had been all day, except he has been doing it for months. I sit on the side of his bed and run my fingers through his greasy, stringy hair, as I look upon his withdrawn, sallow face. His once twinkling eyes now have dark, heavy bags underneath them from lack of sleep, and his stubble has grown out to the point where it's beginning to form a blonde beard and moustache. The only time I've seen him move in months was when I heard screaming and came in to check on him only to see him having yet another night terror.

"Francis," I whisper softly to him. He doesn't respond. The only reason I know he's alive is because I can still feel his pulse, "Francis, please get up, this isn't healthy for you," Still nothing. More tears bite at my eyes, but I need to hold them back. I can't let my brother see me break, not when he's already so broken. I walk over to the window and pull back the curtains, revealing the sun to the room. Francis doesn't even flinch. I pull back his four-poster curtains as well, and watch him closely to see his eyes twitch from the piercing sunlight. This is the first movement he's made awake in a long time. I walk back around and I pick up the tray, placing it next to him on the bed.

"Francis, I brought you wine. Votre favori. Et croissants (Your favorite. And croissants)." He just laid there, "Francis, s'il vous plait, just eat something! You haven't eaten in weeks. Please," Desperation creeps into my voice, and Francis glances over at me, something he hasn't done in what seems like forever. An audible growling fills the room, and it can be easily linked to his hunger. After about one minute of this incessant rumbling, Francis grimaces, and opens up his mouth, just slightly. I smile at him, and pick up the croissant, tearing off a piece of the buttery treat and sticking it in his mouth. I watch him as he slowly chews it and swallows, promptly opening up his mouth again. I tear off a bigger piece and let him take a bite, and then another, and then another until he's finished that piece, too. In no time, the pastry is gone, and Francis looks away, still once more.

"The wine, s'il vous plait," He requests in a weak, hoarse voice. I promptly grab it and gradually drip the contents into his desperate mouth, "Merci," He whispers when its done, and rolls onto his side, where he rolls into a ball and stares out the window, into his beautiful city of Paris. I reach over and run my fingers through his oily locks, petting his head in a soothing motion.

"So are you going to get better now?" I ask. He looks back at me, and I must have had the most desperate, worried, pleading look ever, because he rolls back over to face me.

"Oui," He answers, I lean over and hug him tightly, and after a few hesitant seconds, he meekly hugs me back. I pull away though, as a fetid stench reaches my nose.

"I think it's about time you bathe." I suggest. He just nods. I help him to sit up, and realize that all this time, he's been lying in his bed naked, in a pool of his own filth. I cover my nose from the offensive smell, "I guess I'll be cleaning your sheets as well." Though I'm not at all comfortable with Francis being anywhere near me while naked, I know that there's no way he could walk over to the bathroom on his own, let alone wash himself properly in this state. So I heave him over my shoulder, and drag him into the bathroom.

When we walk into the bathroom, he instantly dives for the toilet and empties his already barren stomach. The hunger must have given him extreme nausea. I reach into the medicine cabinet and grab some Pepto-Bismol, coaxing it into his mouth. He swallows it down, and goes limp on the ground, next to the toilet, staring at me. I start to run the faucet, filling up the tub with nice, warm water, and helping him in. He sighs, relaxing into the warmth of the huge bath. Any other time, I'm sure he'd turn on the jets, but right now he isn't even strong enough to pull himself back up. He closes his eyes and with a shallow breath, dunks under the water for about two seconds, popping back up quickly and gasping for air. I grab a hand towel and wipe his eyes, covering the towel with grime much like the filth that's already floating in the tub.

His hair is barely wet, due to the fact that he was barely able to get his whole head under before he had to rise back up. I dip my hands into the hot bath water, filling them with it. I bring my hands over Francis' head and let the water drop from my palms and slowly onto his head, causing him to sputter as the water reached his eyes and mouth. I dried his face again before continuing the routine four more times. I grabbed his shampoo, put a glob onto my hands, and rubbed them together. Once they were soapy enough, I massage the large amount into his dirty yellow dreads until his head looks like it has a cloud sitting on top of it. I take some of the bubbly foam into my hands and blow it towards Francis. He cracks a small grin that doesn't reach his eyes.

"Francis, wait here. I'm going to go get a pitcher to wash the soap out of your hair. I'll be right back, d'accord?" I inform him.

"D'accord," He replies with a soft voice. I kiss his forehead before standing up and, after looking back once more, running to the kitchen where I find a small pitcher that will work well in washing Francis' hair. Since I'm famished, and know that Francis also is, I grab a box of saltines for France and a roll, which I stick in my mouth. Running back up the stairs and into the bathroom, Francis hasn't moved an inch. I fill the pitcher up with water, kneeling down next to Francis, and shade his eyes from the water and soap as it comes pouring down his head. I do this once more and his hair is now free of soap. I squeeze roughly the same amount of conditioner onto his scalp and comb my fingers through his wet hair, trying to get conditioner between each and every strand.

Once this is also washed out, I take a washcloth and put some sweet smelling lavender and vanilla soap onto it. This is one thing that I won't help Francis with, though, so I hand him the washcloth to scrub himself with. I turn away, not wanting to see this, and sneak a cracker from the box into my mouth. A few minutes later, I hear,

"Fini," Coming from my brother.

"Are you sure?" I ask him. I mean, he hasn't bathed in three months, at the least, so I want to make sure he's thorough.

"Oui," I turn around to see him resting against the wall of the tub, sitting in the soapy, filthy water. He looks so weak. I reach down and begin to drain the bath, grabbing two towels, one for his hair and one for his body. I hand them to him and help him out.

By around nine o'clock pm, I was sitting with my elder brother on the balcony extending from his room after bathing myself, washing all of his bedclothes, getting him dressed, and feeding him saltines and orange juice that he had successfully kept down. We were now watching the sunset and sitting peacefully as the warm, afternoon wind blew past us.

"Monaco," Francis suddenly said. I turned to him,

"Oui?" I responded. Francis stared at the magnificent city of Paris sprawled out in front of us for a bit, before looking over at me with tears in his eyes.

"What…what d-did I do? W-why would-d he…w-what d-did I do to make him w-want to r-run?" He whimpered as tears fell down his now clean cheeks. Times like this broke my heart. I stood up, walking over to him and hugging him tightly.

"Nothing, mon cher." I consoled him, making soothing hushing sounds in his ear, "It's not your fault,"

"Then why would he want to leave me!?" He sobs. I clutch him tighter as I feel tears pooling in my eyes. I don't want to cry anymore though. I'm sick of tears. I pull away just enough so that I can look him in the eyes, and, giving him a strong look and cupping his cheek, tell him,

"He is crazy. He wasn't good enough for you, and now look what he's done. He's hurt you so much. He was, non, is a heartless bâtard. You can't let him do this to you, or else he wins. You can't let him win," He looks me in the eyes and puts his hand over mine.

"Monaco, why is it that you talk like a forty year old even though you're sixteen?" I chuckle at this and offer him my other hand.

"Come now, you need sleep," He takes it and I pull him out of his chair and help him over to his bed, tucking him into his newly washed blankets. I kiss his forehead and whisper,

"Sweet dreams," Walking to the door, I suddenly stop, "Mon frère**?" **I turn my head to him and ask.

"Oui, ma souer?"

"Can I…can I sleep with you? For tonight?" I ask like I used to when I was little.

"Of course," He replies, and I wander back to his bed and slide under the covers, cuddling with my brother. I wrap my arms around him, and he wraps his around me, and I can't help but think about all the troubles my poor brother's had to go through.

"Je t'aime, mon frère,"

"Je t'aime, Monaco,"

~O~o~O~

I don't care if I'm Facebook stalking him. I miss Britain, and ever since he left for Argentina two months ago, I haven't heard a thing from him. I can tell that that particular fact has been weighing down Francis; he's been walking around the house like someone's died all week. I scroll down his wall, constantly checking to see if he's online. Which he isn't, as usual. There's a bunch of new stuff, seeing as I've been busy and haven't been able to check in a week. There are lots of pictures of him with other people, touring around Argentina, partying, and just hanging out. I'm glad that he's having a nice time; he is dating my brother after all. And even if he wasn't, he's still really close to me. He'll always have a special place in my heart.

I was sad that his departure had been so sudden. Out of nowhere he'd started talking about how he wanted to tour the world and had packed his bags and left with many kisses, hugs, goodbyes, and some action in the bedroom I'm 100% sure he and Francis had.

I continued to look through his new pictures until one made me stop. I clicked on the picture to make it bigger and see if I was wrong. But I wasn't. That really was Britain kissing someone. Someone that wasn't my brother. I moved my cursor over her face to see a name pop up. Darcy Messina Razi. I clicked on her name to follow a link to her profile page. And there they were. All over her page, more and more pictures of her and England. They were walking, laughing, kissing, dancing, and some more indecent things that made me sick to say the least. And above everything else, was her relationship status. 'In a relationship with Arthur Kirkland.'

I went back to the original picture and stared in disbelief. There was something I hadn't noticed. A one Francis Bonnefoy had commented, 'I'm happy that you are enjoying yourself, Angleterre,' My heart broke. He had…that was why…no. No, it couldn't have been possible. But there it was. I quickly typed and commented,

'You cheating dick. Does Darcy know about Francis?' I jumped out of my chair and ran to find Francis. He was sprawled on his bedroom floor in pieces. I ran to his side and held him, whispering comforting words into his ear.

But they didn't help. Francis just got worse and worse.

That was a year ago. And Francis is just now getting over it.

~O~o~O~

I finished my Calculus homework, setting it in a neat pile with the rest of my papers. I was at the top of my class, and all this easy stuff was just annoyingly tedious. Just as I was about to grab 'A Tale of Two Cities'(I was getting to the best part), MIKA's 'Elle Me Dit' filled the quiet room. I grabbed my phone to see who it was, and sighed to see Albert's face.

"Allo? Albert, what is it now," I groaned. He'd been bothering me like clockwork every day for the past two weeks.

"Monaco, as your Prince don't you think you could talk to me with a little respect?" He asked.

"No, not when you bother me every day of the week," I snapped at him.

"Mon dieu, you're as sour as that Britain-"

"Do. Not. Mention. Him. Ever," I cut him off with poison dripping from my voice. There was silence on the other end.

"Dèsolè. Monaco, you'll have to get over that eventu-"

"What did you call for?" I asked exasperatedly.

"We lost 800 jobs across the state today. When is France going to get better? We need him to help us," My Boss replied.

"I-I don't know. He isn't doing very well, Albert," My eyes stung as tears began to make themselves known.

"D'accord. Well, please, Mona, do call me when he seems to be feeling better. And if you need someone to talk to, I'm here," He ended with sincerity in his voice.

"Of course. Au revoir, Albert,"

"Au revoir," And he hung up. I dropped myself onto my bed, and was about to crack open my book when the sounds of France's national anthem bellowed and echoed through the house. I ran downstairs to answer the door, swinging it open.

"Quo-" I stopped when I saw the officer.

"Are you a Ms. Monaco Bonnefoy?" The policeman asked me, of course using my human name.

"Oui. What can I help you with, officer?" I asked hesitantly.

"So Mr. Francis Bonnefoy is your brother?" He continued, ignoring my question.

"Oui. What about him?"

"He was caught drunk driving about a half an hour ago," He answered, "Is your mother or father home?"

"Non, we live alone," I shakily informed him, "Is he okay? Did he kill anyone?"

"He's fine, and thankfully nobody was hurt. But he will be summoned to court. If you'll follow me, we can talk about this at the prison,"

"Oui, of course. Just let me get my keys." I ran to find my keys, grabbed them, and locking the door behind me went with the officer to the prison, where, after calling in Prussia and Spain, we paid his bail and took him home, along with the charges he'd have to face and his trial date.

Spain walked back into Francis' bedroom, shutting his phone.

"I just got off the phone with Hollande. He says he got the police to raise the charges," He informed us. Prussia let out a sigh of relief, while I just continued to pet Francis' hair. Suddenly, his lips began to move.

"Monaco?" He mumbled softly, words garbled in his drunken stupor.

"Oui?" I replied immediately. He looked over at me with glazed eyes.

"Où est Angleterre?(Where is Britain?) He said he'd be home by now," He tripped over his words. My eyes went wide from shock as I heard the other two gasp. I was speechless.

"He-he'll be home soon, mon cher," I stammered out, feeling terrible for having to lie. He looked at me with joy filled eyes.

"Bien. That is good. He promised me we'd have a fun night tonight, and if he meant what I think he meant then he'd better have his ass home soon," He drunkenly continued. I slowly nodded.

"Oui. I'll let you wait for him then," I kissed his forehead and motioned for Antonio and Gilbert to leave as I followed them out. As I was closing the door, I heard a soft,

"When he comes in, tell him I'm waiting for him," I felt a tear slip down my face.

"Oui, d'accord. I will," I shut the door behind me, and just stood there in complete and utter shock. I could feel my tears dripping down my cheeks, falling onto my naked feet. And then, I just fell. I shriveled to the ground, curling up into myself as I wept for my brother, overcome with feelings of empathy and despair. Spain and Prussia rushed to my side and tried to comfort me, but nothing seemed to work. Because Britain wasn't coming back. Ever. Yet I had just told him that he would. The look of joy, at what would never occur, on my brother's face had broken my heart. All I wanted was to make this all better, to just fix it all. But I couldn't. There was nothing I could do.

Prussia gently picked me up, cradling me in his arms bridal style as I dug my face into his chest, wrapping my arms around his neck for support. He smelled of beer, cornflower, knapweed, and awesomeness. The familiar scent made me feel secure, as did his strong arms. He carried me to my bedroom with Spain following closely and deftly set me down, sitting next to me and running his hands through my hair while Spain muttered words of comfort to me. But they shouldn't have been whispering them to me, consoling me.

They should have been doing so for my brother. This thought sent me into a worse bout of sobs, and my tears eventually put me to sleep. Gilbert and Antonio stayed at our home for the next week, helping us, and helping me care for Francis, until there was no way possible that they could continue and work, as well as responsibilities, called out for them, leaving me alone with my mess of a brother who refused to move, let alone leave his bed or bathe.

That was three months ago.

~O~o~O~

I sat up in Francis' bed in a sweat to hear his National Anthem playing. After a few seconds I realized that it was the doorbell ringing. I looked over at my brother who looked peaceful for once. I rushed to the door to stop the ringing so that he wouldn't wake up and lose more of his much needed sleep.

But I quickly slammed the door closed in shock at what was on the other side. I leaned onto the door for support. Then the imbècile thought it'd be a good idea to ring the doorbell again. I wrenched the door open and shut it behind me to face Arthur, shooting me a smile while holding out a bouquet of Francis' favorite flowers. I grabbed them from his hands and hit him over the head with them.

"Ow!" He squealed, and then I let out an onslaught of blows with the flowers while screaming various French curses at him, taking out all of the aggression I'd held back for so long on the person who'd caused it, "Monaco! Monaco, please stop!" He begged, trying unsuccessfully to block the flowers from his head with his hands. He'd been unfortunate to choose a bouquet of roses. I eventually threw the flowers furiously to the ground. He let out a sigh of relief, dusting off his pants and turning to me, only to have my palm meet his cheek in a bitch slap, "Bloody hell, Monaco, that hurt!" He screamed.

"That was my goal, bitte," I spat at him as I turned to go back inside, but his hand gripped my arm tightly, refusing to let go, "What!? You cheat on my brother and now a year later you come back to rub salt in the wounds, bâtard!"

"No! It isn't like that! I swear I can explain! I have a good reason, I promise! Please, just let me-" He pleads. I flipped him off before tugging at my arm to try and escape from his grasp. I finally gave up and yelled at him,

"Fine! Fine; then explain! What the hell possessed you to cheat on Francis!?" He was quiet for a few seconds as he averted his eyes, refusing to make eye contact.

"Monaco, what is with all the yelling, mon cher? You woke me…up…" He slowly ended as he stared wide-eyed at the Brit in front of us. My heart dropped as I waited for his reaction.

"Francis-" I began.

"What is he doing here?" He choked out.

"Francis, I-" Britain began.

"Oh, shut it, rosbif," I spat at him once more.

"No," My brother stopped me. I looked towards him. He was still in complete and utter shock, "I want to hear what he has to say,"

"Francis, you don't have to-"

"Monaco," He stopped me with a stern voice, and then I couldn't speak even if I wanted to.

"Francis, I'm so sorry for everything I've done. I can't even begin to imagine how deeply I must have hurt you. And it kills me, because I love you so much, my darling. So I've come here a year too late to beg for your forgiveness, and to try and explain to you why I did such a terrible thing because I cannot live without you, my love," He was on his knees in front of Francis, bawling his eyes out and covering my brother's shoes with his tears.

"Angleterre, you cheated on me, and with some slut all the way across the Atlantic Ocean no less. What kind of reason would ever be good enough to excuse that?" He answered. I was still waiting for the bomb to go off, for I could tell that it was ticking. At this point, England sighed through his sobs and it seemed he could not bring himself to look at my brother.

"When I left to travel the world, I went with a group of others who also wanted to go through the same experience as I did. The first place that we went to, was, as you know, Argentina. But while I was there, America came to visit me. And we got into a horrid fight, one of the worst we've ever had, and he ended up stomping away, screaming curses and words of hate at me. And it hurt me so much, seeing my dear little brother loathe me. At that point, I wanted nothing more than to come home to you so that you could hold me in your arms and comfort me, tell me that everything would be all right," He stopped as another round of wails took him over. Then, he looked up at Francis with bloodshot eyes and a red, tearstained face, and uttered, voice shaking, just barely loud enough to hear,

"But they wouldn't let me leave. I tried and I tried but every time I spoke of going home they would hurt me. They'd beat me, Francis. They spoke of some cult-like group that they were forming, and all this nonsense about how I had now joined. And they wouldn't let me leave. Well, I was heart broken, to say the least. Not only had Alfred just told me that he never wanted to see me again, but I'd been told I could never see you, my love, again either. But there was one girl in the group, named Darcy, and she could see that I was a wreck. So she tried her best to console me and to make me feel better. I could tell that she liked me as more than a friend, and she was the only person there who actually cared about me," He gave Francis a pleading look.

"I was weak. I thought I'd never be able to see the people I loved again. I thought that I'd be stuck with these people for the rest of eternity. They told me that if I tried to talk to anybody outside of our group, that they'd kill me. And since I'm a nation, I wouldn't die, I'd just be tortured, going through the pain of death over and over and over. So I tried to get used to the life that I thought awaited me, and I excepted Darcy's love, even though it broke my heart into a million tiny shards that I was just giving up. I was a wreck. I didn't know that Darcy had been posting pictures of us online. So when one day she came over to me and asked me who Francis was, and showed me the comments on that one picture, I broke completely. I wouldn't walk around Argentina with them. The only times I left our hotel was when we left to go somewhere else. But the whole time, all I saw was your heartbroken face, all I could think of was how devastated you must have been-and-and-"

He was choking on his tears now. I was awestruck by his story, and boy did I feel like crap for beating him with his flowers. Francis was also in shock, but he managed to kneel down next to him, and he took him into his arms.

"Don't worry. Everything is okay now, I'm right here, mon amour," He held him tightly and rocked him as tears began to fall down his cheeks as well. Finally, once Arthur could speak again, he looked up at Francis once more.

"Francis, I love you and want nothing more than for you to forgive me. I've experienced life without you and I never want to have to do that again, for it was worse than any hell I could have gone through. Francis, I love you. Please take me back," He cupped Francis' cheek, and Francis cupped his.

Their lips locked with the passion that both had been holding in for a little over a year. When they tore apart a few minutes later for breath, Francis held Arthur closer to himself.

"I forgive you, Arthur. Je t'aime," He murmured against Britain's lips as they kissed again. Once they were done with their 'snogging' as Arthur would say, he looked over to me.

"Monaco, I know you're protective of your brother, but please know in your heart that I will never betray him again," I smiled, sitting down next to the two of them, and hugged Arthur.

"Of course." I squeezed him tightly with affection, and he hugged back. Then, we all stood up, and Arthur taking Francis' hand, we walked into our home. Once we were situated in the living room with tea, hot cocoa, and wine, I turned to Arthur.

"So, how did you escape?" He looked into the distance, most likely remembering it.

"Actually, Darcy helped me. We had just arrived in Oslo, and we were so close to Norway's house; we were situated in the heart of his land after all. I told Darcy that I had a friend who lived nearby. She still cared about me, so, knowing that it would make me happy beyond compare, one night at 3 am, we left the hotel and I went to Norway's house, where I told him what happened. He helped me to get here, and I immediately came here," He stared into France's eyes, "After escaping, the first thing I wanted to do was to see your face again." France smiled a sweet smile at him and stole his lips into a heated kiss.

"Well I'm happy you're here," He murmured to his love. I smiled at the two of them, happy that they were back together, and that everything seemed to be going back to normal at last.

He never did cheat again, because they really did love each other. They got married a year later (I was the maid of honor and America (Britain and him made up a few months after he returned home), Canada, Prussia, and Spain were the best men), and they actually did, however cliché it may sound, live happily ever after.

Later that evening, I called Albert.

"Allo?" He'd answered.

"Allo,"

"Monaco! What is it?"

"He's better. Everything is,"

And indeed it was.

**Translations:**

**Gott (German) – God**

**Auf Wiedersehen (German) - Goodbye**

**Salut (French) – Hello/ Goodbye (informal)**

**Au Revoir (French) – Goodbye**

**D'accord (French) – Okay**

**Mon cher (French) – My dear**

**Mon frère (French) – My brother**

**Ma souer (French) – My sister**

**Mon Dieu (French) – My God**

**Dèsolè (French) – Sorry**

**Bitte (French) – Dick**

**Bâtard (French) – Bastard**

**Mon amour (French) – My love**

**For those of you who still haven't figured it out, Prince Albert is the Prince of Monaco, and Hollande, or François Hollande, is the current President of France.**

**At this time, I'd just like to thank and congratulate those who made it this far. When I first began to write this story I was very scared that nobody would want to read it since Britain cheats on France in it, and I'm sure that I'm correct to some extent that it will stop people from reading it. But I'd like to inform you, my readers, that some of the events in this story are based off of real life and things that actually happened to someone dear to me. When I found out, I was in despair, feeling beyond empathetic for them. So I took out my emotions in the form of this story. I really do hope that you enjoyed it, because I really did enjoy writing it, even though some parts were hard to write and some (most) parts made me cry like a baby. So thank you.**


End file.
